


The Tale of Nimrodel

by telemachus



Series: Rising-verse [40]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, Gigolas Week 2, M/M, Others Like Them, bedtime stories for dwarrowlings, mythmaking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-06
Updated: 2014-12-06
Packaged: 2018-02-28 08:49:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2726168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telemachus/pseuds/telemachus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A discovery in Aglarond prompts Legolas to invent a new tale for dwarrowlings' bedtime.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Tale of Nimrodel

**Author's Note:**

> Here’s tae us  
> Wha’s like us  
> Damn few,  
> And they’re a’ deid  
> Mair’s the pity!
> 
> (Traditional Scottish Toast)

Fucks sake, elf, I think, we have lived here how long? 

You have followed me through these caves how many times? 

Have I ever got you lost?

No.

Yet – you still don’t really trust me. Still don’t really like it.

You think I don’t know, you think you hide it well enough. Certainly you do better than you did that first time, you don’t cling quite so desperately, your breath doesn’t tremble quite as it did, but – you still don’t sing in your normal way. Oh, you try, you try, you have your pride, and for all your denial, you know I listen for your song, so you try. But – you are still scared.

And there is a small shameful part of me that loves it.

Gimli, I think, you really are a bastard sometimes. 

But – however much he tries not, he does cling that little tighter, he does stay that little closer, his breathing is just that little more – needy – and – I do like it. I can’t bloody help it, any more than he can when I hold him that little tighter on the bloody horse – usually when he has done something to make me – oh he thinks he is so bloody subtle – no, my elf, whatever they say of elves, this one is not.

But – he is following, he is not complaining – so,

“It’s alright, daft sodding elf,” I say, “I am pretty sure I know where I am going. That is – I know where we have been – stop panicking.” And before he can even start to bristle, “I need your help. For once, master elf, I need your help in my caves.” I may have another motive, but – sadly, I suspect that might not persuade him as easily.

Apparently love-in-a-cave – however jewelled – is not important to elves.

Which would be fair enough, had we not had all that performance about love-in-among-trees, love-on-a-flet, more-love-in-among-trees. Different seasons. Different trees.

Bloody elves.

Bloody elf.

Possibly they are not all mad in the same way.

Like I sodding care.

Anyway.

“My help?” he asks, and – oh my love – do I ask you so rarely? Do I not tell you enough how much I need you at my side? No. From the look on his face, I don’t. 

You bastard, Gimli.

“Yes,” I say, watching how he glows, “yes. I found – I think I found – something – something I didn’t expect. And I don’t know what to do. I want you to tell me if I am imagining things that can’t be, I want your advice. You are supposed to be the other ruler of these caves – so – I need your help.”

His pretty elven face tries to show his confusion – but he can’t. Trapped behind his impassive mask. But his song – ah his song – he doesn’t know what to make of this. And his eyes, oh his eyes, alight with happiness at being needed.

Bloody pointy ears twitching, and – oh my pretty elf – just slightly flushed.

“Well, master dwarf,” he is trying to hold on to his pride, to tease back, “you had better show me this – whatever-it-is. But – I know nothing of cave plants or creatures, so do not be surprised if I am no help. In my – in the forest of my lord king – there were few cave dwelling creatures.”

He still wants to say home. I suppose the habit of thousands of years is hard to break. 

He doesn’t say Ada now though. 

Not for a long while, except when he is remembering aloud times long gone. 

I don’t ask why. Best not.

I smile,

“No, I know. Just wine-sotten elves.” And I let the ensuing outrage, defence, bickering, carry us some miles on, until I recognise the chamber I want. “In here. And now – you are not going to like this – I am sorry – but – you will see why. Through there. It is quite safe. If I can fit through, you know you can. I will wait, and pass you the torch. I don’t want to influence you. I want to know what you see. It is quite safe. I promise you.” He is shaking his head, looking at the gap I am pointing to, and, yes, it is small, but it is easy enough, a slight slide down, and under, and through. “It opens out straight away,” I say, “it is safe. I am here.”

He looks at me again, and I can see he isn’t happy.

“This had better be important,” he says, and I can hear he is trying very hard indeed to keep his pride, “and I shall be expecting a reward.”

I stroke his pretty ear,

“Oh, there will be a reward my lovely, I promise you that.” And watch, as he flushes, and – Gimli, you really are a bastard sometimes, I think, as I know he can no more refuse that kind of promise than – well, than I could.

He turns, and slides easily through the gap, and I reach after, as I promised, and pass the torch down. There is a moment of silence, and I imagine him breathing carefully, keeping himself calm, raising the torch to look around, and then – then what?

“Oh,” he says, eloquent as ever, “Oh. The walls – so jewelled – but – that is not what you brought me for, is it? Oh Gimli. Oh. They are – the way they are lying – they must have – together – but – how?”

“I don’t know,” I say, but I have thought about this, “I think a rockfall. It must have been. Trapped. And if no-one knew they were there – “ I don’t need to spell it out to him. It is too close to his nightmares. Nightmares he thinks I don’t know about. “That isn’t exactly it though. Look at them. Look, my elf, and tell me what – who – you see.”

Silence again. Just a faint hint of song. Sad.

“I assumed – Rohirrim. But these are not, are they?”

“No,” I say, easily, “no, Rohirrim have only been in these lands some five or six hundred years. Even in this dry cave air the bodies would be – more like bodies. Not so – dried out. And I think there would be a tale, a memory. But no-one told us of these. No-one remembered them. Much older than Rohirrim. So – what do you see?”

Song turning more and more melancholic. I almost think I recognise parts from when we have buried other dead.

“One is – is – was – wearing mail. And carrying – is that an axe? And other – tools. I do not – I do not know the words. But – I recognise them. I think. And – that one – is – not tall. But – the other – oh Gimli-nin – the other – is taller. Not as tall as I, I think – unless – is that something that might change after death? – But – tall. – And she – it is a she – I am sure – but this is no – there would not have been Men here. She – she is not – she is too tall, too slight – she is no woman, no more than the other is a hobbit. And – curled – together. I – there are no tools with her – but – but there is a knife – a blade only after so long. – I – oh Gimli – melethron – this is too – I need to come out – please.”

And I can hear the panic rising in his voice – I reach for the torch – and he follows it out, easily, I notice, but he is breathing hard, as though I have asked him to run some ridiculous distance. Fortunately I have wedged the torch safely – he needs to be held, he needs the whole ear-touching thing – and, if I am honest, I am not sorry to hold him close. 

Those bodies – they scared me too.

Who are they?

Why are they here?

Am I seeing things? – is he? 

An elf, and a dwarf. Dead. 

In each others arms. 

Hair mingled. Braids – those braids that are left – held by matching beads.

The language of braids has not changed for – many thousands of years. I can read those braids as well as he can.

As well as I can read our own.

An elf and a dwarf.

In this cave.

Who are they?

Why?

 

 

 

“Tell us a story!”  
“Yes, story!”  
“Le-las-elf tell us a story!”  
“Elf tells the best stories,” and I can only imagine how he colours in pleasure at that, but then,

“Grown-ups all busy – pretty Le-las tell us a story?” will have spoilt it a bit for him. Somehow there is always one child to pick up on that phrase. Perhaps I should stop calling him pretty. But he is.

Besides, he flushes so sweetly when he is carefully not losing his temper with a child.

Anyway, he doesn’t know I am listening – we are listening – Kroin is supposed to be rounding up his dwarrowlings, Droin should be despatching the others to their parents, it is past time for them to be in bed, and I – I think it is past time my elf was in my bed – but – we exchange glances, and find that grown dwarves are no more past the longing for elven tales than little ones.

“A story then,” he is smiling again as he begins, in the way elves do, “a story. A tale you do not know, I think. The tale of Nimrodel. Nimrodel was a beautiful elven maiden, she lived long ago, long, long ago in the Land of Lorien, the Golden Wood – I think you have all heard of that place haven’t you? You have all seen the golden hairs of the Lady, set in crystal, in my lord’s law-chamber. But Nimrodel, Nimrodel lived long, long before the Lady came to Lorien, and now the Lady has passed away over the seas. So long ago is the time of which I speak. 

“Nimrodel was a wood-elf, I suppose, at least, she was not any other sort. She lived in that forest, and she was content to be an elf among elves, to sing, to dance, to comb, to feast when it was time for feasting, to praise the Valar, to welcome all they sent. But – there was a king in that forest, a proud Sindar king,”

As though, I think, the word Sindar means anything to his listeners.

“And this king, his name was Amroth. He was not a bad king, he was loved by his people, much loved, he was a wise king, and good. He saw Nimrodel as she danced with her friends among the mallorn trees – the golden mallorn trees – most beautiful of all the trees in Arda. And as the mallorns surpass all other trees in their beauty, in their grace as they dance in the wind, so did Nimrodel surpass all other maidens that king had seen. Imagine how he watched, entranced, as she danced, how he listened as she sang, how he envied her friends the touch of her comb, but – being the king – he saw no reason why he should merely watch and long from afar. So he spoke to her parents, and they spoke to her, and since there was no reason against it, a marriage was arranged.

“But, for all Nimrodel had no word to say against the king, she had no true love for him either. She did not truly wish to marry him – to be his forever – to be the wife of one so often cold, so hard to please, so hard to understand, one so clever with his words, yet no warmth in him, as elven-kings so often are.”

And I pity the memory of poor Amroth, who I fear is being laden with the faults of another.

“So Nimrodel looked for a reason to delay the wedding – and the Valar found one. For just at that time, something evil had woken in the deep places of the earth, and the Valar let the news travel into the Golden Wood. Now, as I said, Amroth was a good king, and so he would not desert his people at such a time, he would lead them to safety, for one thing is always true of elven-kings, whatever else, they care more for their people than for themselves, more for their elves than for any other love or wish or hope they may have of their own. Yet the evil that had come was greater than any other to be found in that age. The evil had woken in the deeps, and it was approaching the surface, racing towards them, carrying all before it, destroying all those in its path, all those who could not, or would not, run. Does anyone know what it might be?”

There is a concerted shiver, a drawing together of little dwarrowlings, and it occurs to me to wonder whether this is really a sensible story for so late at night. I don’t know much of these things, and, I realise suddenly, I don’t suppose my elf does really either.

“Don’t know.”  
“Don’t want to know.”  
“Not like this bit.”  
“I know. It was a balrog. Wasn’t it? And there aren’t any more, and it isn’t scary, and lord Gimli was with Tharkun when he killed the last one, and he wasn’t scared. Cos dwarves don’t need to be scared of anything if they know how to use their axes.”

I don’t think I have ever heard Fralin son of Kroin son of Dwalin speak so many words all at once. Or get so many things wrong. Who knows if there are more? And they are bloody scary, and that last one was terrifying, and there are plenty of things to fear, however good your axework.

Like old age.

Anyway. 

“Yes, it was a balrog, and I think they are pretty scary, only no, there aren’t any more. As to whether my lord was scared when we saw one – you will have to ask him. But I think he will not answer you – he has never told me.” 

No. I suppose I haven’t. There were always more immediate things to speak of, somehow. And – that was not exactly our most glorious moment. 

“Really, really don’t like this, Le-las – I don’t like this story.” He is only small. 

“Come here, then, come and sit on my lap, and hold my braids, you have to hear the end now, or you will be wondering. Come on. I would not tell you a tale that would have you unable to sleep, would I? Your mother would never let me hear the end of it. And my lord would be angry.”

“And then – then you might get no more jewels.”  
“Not that angry.” And they laugh.

Kroin and Droin are laughing at me as well. Bloody idiots.

“I know you are all three of you listening,” he says, “you will have to learn to be a lot quieter before you can deceive an elf’s ears. Come out, and sit and listen properly.”

Oh Mahal, I am never going to hear the end of this one.

“Now, do you all want to hear about Nimrodel? Yes? Very well. This balrog came. I do not know – no-one knows – quite why it woke, or what it was wanting, or where it slept in the years before and after, but it woke. And it came through the Halls of Khazad-dum, trailing fire and destruction in its wake. Many were those it slew, great was the fighting. Many deeds were done of which I have not now time to tell; many were the heroics, as brave warriors fought to save their families, to give them chance to run, if they could not defeat the monster forever. I am sure there are those who can tell you more, and tell you better than I can, of those battles, those acts of heroism in dark places. But it was all in vain, and Khazad-dum was lost, and it fell into darkness and became another dream to those who wandered in exile.”

He glances up and raises an eyebrow at me, and I realise I am sitting stunned, almost unable to reconcile this version with the first I heard, so many years ago, sitting by the river that bears this elf-maiden’s name, when this elf, my love, my ghivashel, my One, was still strange and unknowable in my eyes.

“Then, then the creature came out of the Halls, and for a while it began to prey upon those who lived nearby, and the elves of Lorien were afraid. Many of them began to leave, to prepare to take ship to the lands of the West, and they travelled not to the Grey Havens, for they dared not cross those mountains wherein the creature lived. They went to another shore, and built their ships, many upon many of them. Among them was to go their king, of course, for they would not be without their ruler in such a time, and so of course Nimrodel was to go also. Then she said, let us not marry now, in haste, for I would have our wedding be a thing of joy, and perhaps a binding not only of thou and I, but also of our people to this new land to which we journey. Amroth, my king, my lord as thou wilt be, let our marriage wait, and be the first thing we do when once we reach the Western shore.

“And Amroth, who was not truly an unkind elf, agreed, for indeed he could see that would be a good thing for his people, and like all elven-kings, he took much thought and care for his elves. ‘Let you, my Nimrodel, my bride, gather those last remaining of our people who wish to sail with us, and bring them to the ships where I and these who are now ready will await thee’, he said, and so it was to be. But Amroth, and the followers of Amroth waited, and waited on those ships, but Nimrodel did not come.”

“Did all the elves sail?”

“No, no indeed, they did not. Some elves left Lorien, but had not the longing to sail, and they – they went only to another forest. To the land of Eryn Lasgalen, yes, where I come from, there are some of those elves still living in my land. There are some there in that golden wood even now, for some stayed, and drew in their borders, and kept good watch, and went ever armed with the great bows they use. Never, I think, will all the elves sail, from that or any truly elven wood. There will always be some of us, somewhere, however much we dwindle, and become unknown, there will always be elves in the woods, for we do not all hear the sea’s call, and we love our trees, even as you love your mountain halls of stone. 

“Now, Nimrodel had heard not the call of the sea, and she did not truly love Amroth, and so she wished not to sail, she wished to stay in her wood. I do not know why she was not so afraid of the fire-demon, but she was not, and so – when all the other elves travelled speedily, she went slowly, perhaps saying she wished to bid farewell to her most known and loved trees, to the glades where she had so often danced and sung –“

“To trees?”  
“Do elves talk to trees?”  
“Really?”  
“Le-las-elf talk to trees?”

He laughs, and hugs the littlest to him,

“Yes, elves talk to trees, and sometimes, sometimes, if we are lucky elves, the trees – they do not talk to us, but we can hear their song, very faintly, the song of trees, and we know them, and they know us – and if we go away – if we can – we tell them we are leaving. And – and if we go back – when we go back – they know us, and are glad.”

Oh my pretty elf. You left, and you went back, and there was nothing in you to make any tree glad that winter, I think, and now – now you will go not back again to your beloved forest, your trees will not again see you golden as you now are. 

“So, Nimrodel wandered perhaps, ever further and further behind those she should be with, never thinking of the king who waited for her, until at last – at last she came to the edge of that wood. Now, I think that never had she been outside the wood before, and on seeing the green space, on seeing the running river clear among the rocks, with no trees on either side, on seeing, perhaps, the distant mountains with their snow-covered peaks, she felt – she felt the urge that elves have to wander, to see, to touch, and taste, and speak with all things, and to hear the song of distant places. So without thinking of her parents, without thinking of her friends, without thinking of the king, her lord, and without thinking of the danger, she went. She followed her heart, her longing, the call of mountains, and she followed above all the river, so sweet, so clear as it is, ever wishing to see from whence it came. She did not think of the direction she followed, though in truth she moved always southwards, nor of the speed she made, being, as elves are, not naturally one to think of the time passing with any urgency.”

No indeed, my beloved elf. You are not any more than this fictional Nimrodel. And I dread the day you notice the changes time makes to me, the day when time passing begins to haunt you.

“But although Nimrodel was content for many days to wander, as elves do, without reason or purpose, although Nimrodel wished only to follow her heart, for,” and he looks at me, “all elves are ruled by our hearts, we are not dwarves to listen to the sense in our heads. Despite this, there came a time when even Nimrodel, wandering as she was, began to wonder whether she had made a most foolish choice. Then perhaps, lost in the snows of the peaks of the mountains, cold, and maybe missing her parents and friends, she felt alone and afraid, maybe at that moment she felt regret for that elven-king, for the safe home, the jewels and luxuries he would have offered her. Who knows what she thought, who knows whether she wondered if it would have been better to act as a daughter of men would, to have married for sense, for comfort, for duty, and not to have hoped for love, not to have dreamed and longed to meet one who might be her only beloved, as elves and dwarves are taught. 

And as she wandered, lost, and lonely, then did Nimrodel meet her fate, then did she meet one she can never have expected to meet. She met the one she was destined for, the one whose love would make her whole at last, but at first, at first, I think she did not recognise Ingun as such. At first Nimrodel saw only a dwarf, a dwarf who might be a danger, who might be anyone. ‘Master dwarf,’ she said, ‘I have come from the land of Lorien, I have lost my way in these mountains, I know not where I am, nor which way I should go. Know you the direction of the coast at the edge of these White Mountains, for that is where I should have taken ship, these many days past?’ and Ingun smiled the smile of one who knows more than another, and answered her. ‘My fair elf-lady, I know of the land of Lorien, I too am from near there, though the Halls of my Fathers are now fallen into the shadow and flame of one who is not to be mentioned in such clear air as we are now stood in, but though I am not familiar with these paths, I am a dwarf, and I can read a map.’

Then those two most unlikely companions began to journey together, down through the paths that would lead them down towards the sea, down towards the ship that would take Nimrodel over the sea to her marriage to the elven-king. Rarely, I think, can two more unsuited have been thrown together, the fair elf-maid, who knew little outside her wood, but was full of wonder at the world, full of songs, full of fear of the future, and the dwarf, so practical, so sensible, so at ease with whatever the fates might bring – yet with as keen an appreciation of beauty and of music as any being in Arda.”

He is carefully not looking at me, but my cousins are, and they are laughing again. Bloody elf, thinks he is so sodding clever, so very funny. I scowl, and then – then I realise I am being unfair. I am pretty sure that all added up to something like a compliment.

Daft sodding elf.

“But the way was long, and hard, and tiring – yes, even for a dwarf it was tiring. Dwarves do occasionally get tired, you know. Especially little ones,” he smiles down at the sleepy face on his lap, struggling desperately to keep eyes open, and then he holds him close, “especially little ones. But even great dwarf warriors have been known to feel tired, to admit they need to rest – have they not, my lord?” and he meets my eye, with raised brow.

“Aye, I daresay they have,” I answer, and there is an intake of breath at such words, “of course, it is only kind to say such a thing sometimes – otherwise silly elves would never have chance to look at all the pretty trees around them. And then silly elves would be sad.”

“Is that so? Yes. Well. Perhaps this silly elf will bear that in mind next time we are journeying and you ask to rest. However. Neither Nimrodel or Ingun were used to such walking, nor were they sure of the way, and so night after night they stopped, and made a fire, and talked, and ate what little food they had, and rested until the light returned. At first, at first I think they talked only of the journey, of where they were to go, of where they had been, but after a time – they began to talk a little more. Perhaps they spoke a little of home, of their families. Perhaps – perhaps they began to have their own ways of talking together. 

At first, at first I daresay each ate their own food – but it would not be long before they found it better to share, to build bonds of guest-friendship by breaking bread together, not just sharing a fire. At first, at first each kept watch while the other tidied their hair alone, briefly. At first, at first they did not sing together, at first they did not even sing for one another – and perhaps Ingun did not know what was missing from their companionship, being a dwarf, and as dwarves are.

Yet Ingun was no fool, and perhaps realised that something was not well with the elf-maid. As time went on, as they grew closer to their – not their destination – but to the roads which would lead them back to the lands of Gondor, Nimrodel did not become joyous, sparkling with hints of gold as an elf who is to soon be with their beloved should. Nimrodel became withdrawn, shrunk in upon herself – except when Ingun would speak of other things, of her own land, her people, or tell tales of places visited, strange things seen. Then Nimrodel would sit straight and tall, and her hair would shine, and her eyes were bright as she listened, and her song joyful.

But Ingun was a dwarf, and did not understand such signs, for dwarves like things in – plainer language.”

Our eyes meet, and I sigh and fold my arms. Not one to let go of a grudge, my elf. I suppose I should be grateful he is only teasing, and nothing more.

My dear cousins snort, and I kick the nearer, but the little ones, it seems, are dwarven through and through, and do not understand.

“What things?”  
“What signs?”  
“Le-las-elf hair always shine.”

“Well yes, but that is because I am a very lucky elf. I am at the side of my lord every day and night, am I not? But Nimrodel –“

“She wanted Amroth?”  
“She loved her king? Now she missed him?”  
“Or – not?”

Interesting. I suppose Fralin is the oldest of these, more likely to understand.

“Not indeed. And then there came the day when the two must begin to descend from the mountains to the plains, and then – then they would be but a short distance from where they must part. Nimrodel to take the road to her king, her ship, and Ingun to take the road onwards to the cities where trade would be found.

“Then it was that Nimrodel found her courage. ‘Ingun, dearest friend, companion of all these miles,’ she began, ‘it seems to me that the light begins to fail on this side of the hills, and I would start such a journey at sunrise not sundown – I would not part with you just yet. Will you not light another fire that we may have one more evening of tales – and – and Ingun – friend of my heart – will you show your friendship in elvish way – will you comb me, even if I may not comb you?’

For a moment there was silence, and then Ingun began to be busy with the fire, and keeping face averted spoke in answer, ‘What does such combing mean to you – for among my people it would be much indeed?’

Nimrodel – and I daresay her ears flushed – “

“Like yours?”  
“When your lord smiles at you?”  
“Le-las-elf ears pink!”

They are. He should have known better than to mention his ears. Dwarrowlings are endlessly fascinated by them.

Not just dwarrowlings, truth be known.

Silly pointy ears.

Pretty though.

Useful too.

“Yes, yes, never mind _my_ ears. _Nimrodel’s_ ears flushed, but she did not look away, she waited until her friend met her eyes, and only then did she answer, ‘Were we many not just two – it would mean little, friendship only. But we are only two. And – and I would not have this without your knowledge – so – yes it would mean much. It might – as we chose – mean merely that though we said farewell, that we had a bond not to be forgotten, or it might mean – it might mean that our bond was more. Was perhaps not one to be broken. It might – ‘ and I think the words might have deserted her then, for elves – elves are not always gifted in such matters.

But Ingun was a wise dwarf, and answered ‘Might it indeed mean as my heart would wish it – that there will be no more talk of weddings and kings, but instead – where you will go will be where I also will go – and perhaps – we might find we could continue to do without your elves or my dwarves, and go instead further into these mountains?’

Then Nimrodel blushed still further, and could only say, ‘Master dwarf, that is indeed as I would have our combing be – yet – why say you no wedding for us?’

Ingun looked at her in surprise, and answered, ‘Is it then the custom of your people to have a wedding where there will not be children?’ and then – hearing her beloved’s words she laughed, ‘oh Nimrodel, fairest of elf-maidens, can it be that even now you truly do not see me as I am – and should I be afraid that the truth will take this happiness from me? for I am no master dwarf – content though I am that those I know not should call me so – I am as delicate a dwarf-maid as there is, and so, love returned or not – we shall be having no wedding I think.’

And Nimrodel laughed for joy that love was returned, love was real, and then – then indeed their combing was a pleasure to both of them, and the song that night was a mingled music of both races, Ingun being not one to pretend she had no skill for music.”

Ouch.

I have no such skill, I am merely blessed with – I assume – a very partial elf. But I admit – to myself at least – had I known how important all the bloody singing was – I would have taken less persuading.

Being persuaded was fun though.

Anyway.

He continues, and I think the end must be near, the littlest is so close to sleep,

“Then it was that Nimrodel and Ingun did not turn their separate ways, then it was that they began their wanderings, wanderings through woods and plains, wanderings by streams and rivers – and of course wanderings through caves, among rocks and jewels, by deep pools and hidden fountains.

Wanderings which lasted many years.

Until at last – and who knows the reason why at this long distance – a cave was found that would be their forever-cave, their tomb, and there they lie, safe, together, peaceful, until the world changes and all things are made anew.”

His voice has dropped, and he is holding the little one very close, the chant of his words bringing sleep, as they do – and I should know – but the others – the others are round-eyed.

“Really?”  
“Is that true, Le-las-elf?”

And when he nods, they look to us for confirmation.

“Yes,” I say, “it is true, I have seen them. But you need not look to me – if Legolas, lord of Aglarond, says a thing, it is so.”

They bite their lips, feeling the rebuke, and I am pleased to see they know their manners as they say,

“Sorry Le-las-elf.””  
“Sorry,” and then, “Sorry Gimli.”

Kroin reaches to take the youngest, and my elf kisses him goodnight as he passes him over, and off they go.

“Is it well?” he asks, and for a moment I don’t know what he means.

“Yes,” I say, “I like that version. Though I think you may be unfair to Amroth – but – I daresay he will not care.”

He smiles, 

“No, indeed, from all I have heard Maegsigil say, he was not one to care much for the opinion of dwarves, so long as they fulfilled their contracts,” and I remember again how old he, and all his bloody elves are.

“Will this version make it to Ithilien?” I ask, “Or is the truth too well-known?”

“The truth?” he looks sidelong at me, “oh Gimli-nin, who but Eru Iluvatar knows what is true? The truth is there are bodies in these caves, an elf-maid and a dwarf-maid, there is Nimrodel missing and never truly found, and there is a need for stories. More than that, who can say?”

I laugh, 

“Devious bloody elf,” I say, and then I put my arm round him, “come to bed. I am not tired.”

It is his turn to laugh, and he rests his head on mine as we walk,

“I never knew you to admit to being, unless you wished for some advantage,” he says, and there is silence for a while.

It is only when we are in our room, and the door shut that he says, and I can see his ears are pink,

“Gimli-nin, I know – at least, I think I know – they were combmates and vowed as we are. You – you will laugh – but – two females – I do not – would they have more than combing as we do? As a male and female would? It was only when I was telling the story – I was worried one of the little ones would ask – and I do not know.”

Oh my elf.

“They are too small to think of such things,” I say, “dwarves are not born – knowing. We just work it out quicker than elves. As for what – I have never seen, how could I know?”

He makes a face, and I realise – he knows enough of my past to assume I have heard talk – and so I pull him into my arms and begin,

“When a lady dwarf, and another lady dwarf – or a lady elf for that matter – love each other very much.......”

And I remember to end,

“....which is all very well for those who choose it, but for myself, I am very happy to be male, and to have my male elf in my arms. Whatever we may lack in stamina.”

And I know from his sigh that I will have my – beautifully male – elf singing loud the only tune I wish to hear before the night is much older.

**Author's Note:**

> Discrepancies with the 'official' tale are noted. Legolas doesn't seem to know it that well in FOTR, and this one is - well - his own version.


End file.
